S

tately plump Akim Tamiroff, trousers rolled and held up by red suspenders (yellow piping)-- OVER the paunch, thank you very much-- stood behind the ruins of the Phillipshead Conservatory hosing down his inverted bicycle. The wheels spun in the jet of dank water and the mud caked in the treads liquefied and spattered. There were puddles everywhere, and his ugly feet were bare.
It was not all mud and it was not all caked. That was the thing about mutants: their blood did not thicken after leaving the veins. Correction: it was ONE of the things about mutants. Anyway the tires were clean, black, glistening. He wrenched the faucet handle shut and coiled the hose. A mere trickle, and the smell unspeakably foul. Then, bright bike chained to a truncated lamppost-- the top sheered off by Bog knew what-- Tamiroff vanished into the labyrinthine back alleys. Cue back alley music. Cucumber music. An inexplicable urge, and he jogged left towards a known danger zone. "What's my problem?" he thought irritably. He felt the eyes of mutants upon him. Three eyes, and then a fourth that whizzed over his head and missed. He crouched behind a pile of cardboard cartons and wiped the smashed eyeballs from his shirt as the empty mutated sockets refilled with viscous sludge that would eventually-- within 15 minutes-- gel into more eyes.
Then: overturned garbage cans, hurled garbage, a crash through a decaying fence (here a suspender abraded and snapped), and Tamiroff, out of breath, found his way back into his own zone.
Lately he was taking a lot of strange chances-- not just endangering himself in Mutant Keeps, but charging into traffic, hitting on women way out of his league, order dinners that he couldn't afford to pay for something was clearly amiss.

T

amiroff kicked off his shoes and stepped onto the plush carpet of his best friend Brian Donlevy's apartment. Donlevy fingered a scar that ran from his right temple down to his jawline. He fussed with it, moved it to the left side of his face, slid it across his forehead, over the eyes. "What do you think, Tam?"
"You look like Boris Karloff."
"Hah!" Donlevy peeled the scar off, dipped it in his coffee, popped it in his mouth. A taste treat. Undertones of almond.
"Recently I'm acting kind of crazy," said Tamiroff. He pulled the kitchen curtain aside, scanned the rooftops for snipers. Too dark to tell. He opened a drawer and grabbed a Ginzu knife and placed his hand, fingers outstretched, on a cutting board. Chok! The blade slammed into the space between his thumb and forefinger. Chok! Between forefinger and middle finger. CHOK! CHOK! He went faster and faster, and as he did, brought the fingers closer and closer together. He shut his eyes, still continuing the game, but as the blurred blade cleared the now shredded board one of the invisible snipers fired. The bullet snapped the blade from Tamiroff's hand. Tamiroff blinked. There was blood on the table-- he had nicked three of his fingers. Donlevy poured himself another cup of coffee and painted a stripe of non-flexible collodion along the edge of his face. It dried into a quite passable sunken scar, though not an edible one. When Donlevy grinned it popped off, but that was two days later. For now he sipped his coffee. "I feel like there's something wrong with me. Like there's somebody besides me in my head," said Tamiroff.
"Do you hear voices?"
"When people talk to me."
"In your head?"
"Well, of course. That's where my EARS are. Where do you hear voices?"
"I mean-- oooohhh, you drive me crazy, Tam!" Donlevy tossed his cup into the sink, which he had forgotten to fill with water. Shards of cup danced around the enamel for a moment. "Do you hear voices when people AREN'T talking to you, is what I want to know?"
"No. But I occasionally get these urges to do things that don't make sense to me, as if someone else was in the driver's seat. Do you have any Band-Aids?"
Donlevy didn't, and as they judged they had filled the small but richly appointed flat with enough exposition for the moment, they strolled to the drug store. As they crossed the street, a man in a passing taxi hollered, "Hey, Tamiroff! I got a thing for Gloria Graham, too!"
"What the hell?" said Donlevy.
"Uh "
"Who was that guy?"
"I dunno," said Tamiroff. "That's been happening a lot, too. Total strangers telling me stuff about myself that no one but me could possibly know."
"You DO have a thing for Gloria Graham?"
Tamiroff blushed, and continued blushing all the way to the drug store. Band aids, q-tips, small plastic guns. A cornucopia of delights and necessities, and all for 89 cents and under, with bonus points.

Is that Pope Boniface VIII behind those Foster Grants? And what are those two teeth marks?

"S

tep right up!" cried Urbanus XII. Deep in the heart of Popetown, Urbanus stood outside the Popetorium, trolling for customers. "Ski Ball! Girls, Girls Girls! Today's headlines as performed by the Singer Midgets! Free pickle slice with burger, fries and a shake! Ten minutes inside the brain of Akim Tamiroff! And did anybody say FREE PICKLES?"
Two Popes from out of town, chewing on those long wheat-like stalks which out-of-towners enjoy chewing when they visit the Big City, paused before the entrance. "Say, mister " said the taller out-of-towner, "How much does it cost to go in?"
"Just keep walkin,' Clem," said Urbanus. "There's an appliance store down the block with like 20 TV sets in the window, one of 'em gotta be showin' Hee Haw. This place is a little rich for your blood, you know what I'm saying? Ski ball! Girls Girls Girls! Today's--"
"Say, I guess my dough is as good as anybody's," said the rural Pontiff, thrusting out a lower lip. Urbanus took the lower lip and examined it with a jeweler's eyepiece.
"Hey, this is the real goods. Albanian, 16th Century, isn't it?"
"Well, I guess it is," said the gangly Pope. Urbanus slipped the lip into his pocket and ushered the two into the Popetorium. "Hey, pop! Give these two boys the full treatment, tip top, A Number One!"
"Can do, boss," said an elderly Swiss Guard. "What's yer pleasure, gents? Burger and fries? A little bit o' pinball? Trip inside Tamiroff's head? Cock fighting?" Three Singer Midgets trotted past, one dressed in a NY Yankees uniform, the others attired as Iranian militants.
"Well, how long is the line for Tamiroff's head?"
The Swiss Guard glanced into a monitor embedded in the far wall. "Actually, it's being serviced at the moment, but they're almost through. No line at all."
"Let's start with that," said the tallest of the out-of-towners.
"Exactly what I'd do. Sometimes the line's around the block."
"You ever been inside his head yourself?"
"Oh, sure. I was here when they found the door!"
"No kidding?"
"Why would I kid you? It was a Coke machine, see? One day Boniface VIII is changing the syrup, and he notices the inner workings seem to extend backwards for yards and yards, instead of just a foot or two. He crawls around inside, and he can't seem to find the end, you know? And then he takes one more step-- or whatever you call it when you're on your hands and knees-- and WHAM! He's staring out of the eyes of Akim Tamiroff!"
"Arch-enemy of the Legion of Popes," whispered the shorter of the two out-of-towners.
"Yup. He's sitting on Tamiroff's toilet, staring at Tamiroff's bathroom, pinching Tamiroff's loaf. And he's thinking Tamiroff's thoughts."
"How's that?"
"Well, truth to tell, he's not so much thinking Tamiroff's thoughts as watching Tamiroff's thoughts. At least that's what it was like when I was in there." He glanced over at the workmen atop the Coke machine that lead into Tamiroff's brain. One gave him a 'two minute' signal. "I could kind of see and hear what Tamiroff was thinking. Got a real good shot of that Gloria girl, for just a second. I'll tell you boys one thing-- Tamiroff may be the Arch-Enemy of the Legion of Popes, but he's got terrific taste in broads." The guard cackled.
"What did you make Tamiroff do when you were in there?"
"HAH! I had him try to crash the Deb-Mutantes' Ball! He barely got out of there in one piece! Hey, they're all set for you, boys."
The shorter Pope pulled a Glok from beneath his robes and shot the guard in the face. "Yeah, I barely got out of there in one piece, all right, you son of a bitch," but the guard was past hearing. Alarms went off, but Donlevy pulled an assault rifle from beneath his robes and fired a burst over the heads of the milling Pontiffs. "EVERYBODY DOWN ON THE FLOOR!" He and Tamiroff pulled off their enormous hats and moved over to the Coke machine. "I got the blasting caps, Tam. Slap some of that plastique on the dispenser and nobody's ever gonna spend a lazy afternoon making you wear underpants on your head again."
"Actually, that was before they found this thing, Don. Listen-- I want to go through it one time before we take it out."
"Say what? You want to go inside your own head?"
"I want to see what the attraction is."
"But, you're already--"
"Yeah, yeah-- but think about it-- if I go inside my OWN head-- it's gonna be INTENSE."
"Tamiroff squared," whispered Donlevy. "Jesus!"
"Here I go. Keep me covered!" Donlevy fired another burst in the air and Tamiroff raced to the open soda machine. At first he couldn't find his way past the cup dispenser, but in a few seconds he had negotiated the bizarre internal workings and found himself in a cool, open area. He lurched forward another foot and there was a falling sensation, and suddenly he was looking out through his OWN eyes as if they were someone else's and at the same time, he felt a strange, yet familiar presence inside of his own mind His eyes focused on nothing, since he was, essentially, nowhere. He listened for the sound of his own thoughts, scanned the darkness for his memories, felt something ransacking his brain, realized it was himself
"

T

hought you were gone for good, buddy," said Donlevy. Their robes rippled as they raced through the streets of Pope town. The Popetorium was erupting in a third of five fireballs. Popes on fire trucks shot past them en route to the blaze. "What was it like in your own head?"
"Gloria Graham," said Tamiroff, "I'll tell you-- she's got some set of tits!"

or,

The Blank Day
by John Berbrich

I entered. The air was just as stuffy and oppressive in here as it had been outside. I walked up to the counter, selected a stool, and sat down.

I ordered. Cheeseburger, dill pickle, chips and fries to mop up the grease. Coffee. Ancient encrustations of ketchup and mustard adorned the counter-top.

Along the stool sat a few dull solos, men and women alone. One elderly couple sat there silently. Three fat schoolgirls sat in a booth by a window, quiet and motionless. A young man wearing a neck-tie sat alone at a table, a black briefcase on the floor beside him. The ceiling fan revolved slowly. A fly dozed on the salt shaker in front of me. Another fly buzzed dully through the heavy air, tumbled into a napkin dispenser, and fell to the counter-top; it landed on its back, wriggled its legs apathetically, then lay still.

The counter-girl looked almost asleep. Her eyes were half-closed, her mouth half-open. Her stare was in the direction of the window, lonely and unfocused.

I put a quarter in the tiny counter juke box, punched in my selection. The thing emitted a few garbled sounds, coughed, then whirred down through a bleary and crumbling decrescendo into silence. Not a sound.

The counter-girl, wiping her greasy hands on her apron, began to yawn. Her mouth opened wide, sucking in air; her eyes closed--and then suddenly opened. From her open mouth, between her parted lips, sounds emerged. She began to sing.

Slow and sweet came the words; a head or two popped up along the counter. The juke box suddenly clanked back into life: low violins swept forth from its tiny speakers.

The counter-girl stood up straight, her eyes focusing. Her voice rose in strength and purpose. The fat schoolgirls stood up beside their booth and formed a chorus.

The music rose, turned sharp and brassy. The faces of the elderly couple crinkled with merriment.

Flinging her apron aside, the counter-girl leaped on top of the counter. Her dress was short and white and tight. She spread her arms and sang out, heels clicking, legs pumping. The young man in the neck tie scrambled to the top of his table. He answered the counter-girl in song. Other voices rose. The fly wriggled its legs.

The young man back-flipped down to the floor, landing on his feet. He went to his knees, wringing his hands, pleading pleading with the counter-girl, who glared down at him, hands on hips.

The beat was quick and snappy.

Customers were spinning on their stools.

The young man turned and snapped open his briefcase. He pulled forth a big bunch of bright flowers, and showed them to the counter-girl, whose face softened into a smile.

Cymbals crashing, the young man sprang to the top of the counter. Down on one knee, pleading, he extended to the girl the flowers.

She approached slowly, her white dress screaming. The fat schoolgirl chorus sang, kicking their legs in unison. Everyone at the counter sang background.

The young man smiled with fierce hope: the girl's eyes sparkled. Drums rolled and rattled as the two approached, inch by inch drawing nearer, their faces and bodies alive and young and strong and urging powerfully towards each other-- the song and dance of healthy life. Their faces drew nearer; their mouths opened. The customers clinked spoons against coffee mugs, tossing shredded napkins into the air like confetti or rice at a wedding. The girl's tongue darted in her mouth. Their eyes were just inches apart, burning and gleaming. They extended their arms to embrace--

A little bell jingled as the Diner door opened. A customer entered, selected a stool, and sat down.

The counter-girl completed her yawn

I finished my burger, squeegeed up the grease with my fries, bolted down my coffee, paid the bill, left a tip, and left that hot, oppressive stifling place, passing through the doorway into the bald street of the blank day.

It had been my habit for several
years to spend my vacation with Indian friends in the state of
Nayarit, Mexico, whenever possible. I was living in South Gate,
California, in the year 1960, working long hours in a plant that
made freezers to ship to the U.S. Military. One of my duties was
to termite-proof the lumber that went into the freezers with
creosote spray. I did special carpentering jobs that cropped up
and, because I was of Mexican descent and bilingual, I was
quickly advanced to the position of supervisor over some thirty
Mexican employees, an unending responsibility since they shifted
jobs frequently, were more inexperienced than experienced,
unskilled, reticent, and spoke little or no English.

Two years without a vacation was
pressing hard on me. I knew I must get away. The thought of the
Nayaritas, my easy going friends in Nayarit, the outdoor life,
the simplicity, the plodding, sloe-eyed Sofia, made each day at
the plant an eternity.

I asked for three weeks
vacation, reluctantly granted by my boss, and set about in a
delirium of shopping. Two days later, loaded to the chin, I
caught a bus to Mexicali, across the borderline from Mexico, took
a second bus to La Penita, Nayarit, then a third bus to El
Venada, Nayarit.

Excitement heightened as I
neared my destination. Stately palms, the serene landscape began
to feed my starved soul. Away from high rise buildings, endless
pavement and rushing traffic gave me a mental calm.

A bed was built especially for
me in one of the huts. I looked on lazily while two of the young,
energetic bucks cut four V-shaped stakes from a pine tree and
hammered them into the ground, about cot-size apart. Two six-foot
pine poles were then laid length-wise, and fitted into the
stakes. Next came bamboo poles, cut skillfully with a machete,
and placed side by side across the pine poles to form a platform.
Twelve-inch needles, threaded with thick cord, were used to weave
the bamboo poles securely together. Next deer skins were thrown
over the bamboo poles and on top of them colorful, hand woven
blankets. A masterpiece! I slept that night as one dead.

While there, we went duck
hunting on the San Francisco River. We watched for deer, spending
twilight hours in a tree near the river where they cane to drink.
The Nayaritas kill only to satisfy hunger. The catch is dragged
home, cleaned and gutted, then portioned out to the villagers.

Fishing was done with small
sticks of dynamite carried by hand. When a school of fish was
spotted, the dynamite was lit and hurled into the river. On
explosion, several young braves dived into the water and tossed
the floating fish out onto the bank. This must be done quickly
and with precision, or the swift current will carry the fish
downstream. The fish are gutted and shared by all.

I lingered several days, eating,
resting, sleeping. Then I said, "Tomorrow I must go to Los
Planes to see Ignacio. And," I added, "Sofia."

"Si, amigo," they
nodded, grinning. "Ah, that Sofia."

Los Planes was another small,
isolated Indian village, consisting of some thirty huts, mostly
palm huts, a few bamboo and mud, six adobe, about seven hours
away on slow donkey back. There were no real roads leading to Los
Planes, mostly narrow paths, therefore no buses.

My friends loaned me two
donkeys, one to ride, the other carried my belongings and gifts.
We left at sun up, clumping over wildly beautiful meadows,
splashing through shallow streams, winding under towering pines
and giant palms. Blue blue sky overhead, only one steady sound,
the cop, clop of hooves. And me-- singing at the top of my lungs!

Los Planes is surrounded by
trees plush with guayabas. Red, yellow hanging beauties, so large
I could barely hold on in my hand. I thought about two years ago,
when I last visited Ignacio-- first rising at dawn, sauntering to
the creek to wash up in the clear crystal stream, then stuffing
my mouth with guayabas. I couldn't wait!

I found Ignacio near his palm
house on the hill. We clasped hands, sizing each other up with
locked gaze.

"Bienvenida, amigo."

"Gracias, amigo."

Pleasure squeezed my heart. The
little village below was a setting of delight, walled by rolling
green hills. A stream gushed from higher up, flowing under trees,
past the village, flashing bands of silver as it caught the late
afternoon sun. I sucked in my breath. Ignacio waited.

After a while I asked,
"Sofia?"

"She's gone for the day.
She'll show up in the morning for her corn. You timed your coming
right, amigo. We are in need of fresh meat."

By now, the natives had wind of
my presence. They came up the hill, children on the run, followed
by parents and slower grandparents. Three lovely maidens welcomed
me with trays of fruit, nuts, and tortillas. They were ecstatic
over the simple gifts I passed around, thanking me over and over,
"gracias, amigo, gracias."

I don't know when I fell asleep.
The hammock I was sitting in became my bed. The world passed
away.

A tinkle in the distance
awakened me the next morning at barely dawn. Sofia. She was
coming for the ears of corn Ignacio laid out for her in the
lean-to at the side of his hut. Ignacio had raised Sofia from
birth. As she grew, he placed a collar with a bell around her
neck, so she could be heard all over the countryside, protecting
her from the same fate her mother had suffered. Sofia came and
went at will, nuzzling Ignacio, impatient for her corn. Corn was
her weakness.

Often, in the early morning
hours, when she appeared for her treat, a fine buck tagged along
at her heels. Untamed and fearful, the buck would wait at a
distance for her return. Ignacio's window faced the path that
Sofia trod. He could easily make out if Sofia had a swain waiting
below. If in need of meat, he would pick off the puck with ease.
After the kill, Ignacio would blow a bullhorn three times to
announce fresh venison, to be shared by all.

Sofia was never perturbed. She
was petted and adored by everyone. She had no reason to fear the
pop of a gun.

"Venir, amigo!"
Ignacio was standing over me.

"Si, amigo!" The
hammock swayed under me as I raised up. What a night of sleep! I
still had my shoes on. I leaped off and followed Ignacio. The
tinkle was closer. But this time Sofia was alone. I exclaimed,
"Sofia's getting fat!"

"She's ready to have a
baby," Ignacio said.

Sofia did not come for her corn
the next morning. When she did appear, she was lean and hungry.
"Ha!" Ignacio said, patting her, giving her extra corn.
"You're skinny again."

"I wonder where the baby
is," I mused.

"Hiding in the bushes
somewhere," Ignacio said.

As soon as Sofia ate her fill,
she started down the path. I followed. I had to see her young!
About a mile away, behind heavy brush, Sofia stopped. I edged
closer, awed by the sight of two satin mouths pumping her teats
with force. Twins! Impulsively, I dashed forward, yearning to
touch them. Instantly they disappeared.

Sofia was unruffled. I laughed,
rubbing her ears. "You knew I was following you all the
time, didn't you? All right, I'll leave you alone to round up
your babies-- on one condition. Bring us a big, fine buck
tomorrow. Promise?"

It was scarcely dawn the next
morning when we heard the tinkle of Sofia's bell drawing closer,
a companion at her heels.

"Oh, that Sofia," I
said, shaking my head in disbelief, "she's a jewel."

That night, fresh deer meat was
included in our evening meal.

copyright 1999,
2000 by Verma Grego. Originally appeared in Crystal Drum 69

"I think she likes me, " Keith whispers, hand shielding the lower half of his face as if to deter any lip readers who might be present at the Body Shoppe, tonight.

On stage, Raven subtly wipes the center pole with a sheer black scarf before humping her pussy against it. She's a small, hard-bodied Latina with hair down to her ass like a silk curtain, and a perversely plump pussy three sizes too big for her. From behind it almost looks like a set of balls hanging down. Her breasts are small and taut, stiletto nipples are dark like her blood puddle eyes. She watches me watch her as she shimmies down the pole.

"You hear me?"

"Yeah, I hear you, Keith, and I think you're full of shit. Now shut up."

The spell is broken. Looking back at the stage, Raven has turned her attention to an old bastard sitting opposite me. An old bastard with much more money than I have. Raven bends down to rub her tits in his face, and I get an eyeful of ass.

A Marilyn Manson tune roars from the army of speakers positioned around the club. Dimly, I can hear Keith rambling on beside me. "You didn't see Passion talking to me? She was over here for quite a while."

See, this is why I hate bringing Keith with me to the strip joints. He invariably finds a heavy-breasted blonde to obsess upon, dropping all his money in a feeble attempt to convince said stripper that he's groovy enough to be her man for the night. Granted, I've made a few of these ladies car payments, but, at least, I've always maintained an air of reality.

"I saw you talking to that blonde, Keith. And I also saw you buy her a few drinks."

And this is how beaver shacks make the real money. Separating desperately lonely guys like Keith from their hard-earned dollars by taking advantage of their pathetic desire for intimate conversation with beautiful women who would ordinarily ignore them. So Passion clocks Keith salivating over her speed-bag sized tits and her pubic hair trimmed to the shape of a heart and right away she knows a private dance won't be enough. She approaches, all smiles, pushing her knockers in his face and almost knocking him into my chair. "How ya doin', baby?" She says.

Before Keith can even tell her he's got a hard-on as big as her head, a waitress hustles over and asks if he would like to buy the lady a drink. Of course, Keith can't convince Passion to come home with him if he can't talk

to her so he opts to buy her a large "drink". Now, you or I plunk down four bucks per glass of piss-warm watered-down beer. For a large glass of water, which undoubtedly comprises her "drink", Keith parts ways with twenty bucks. It roughly equals ten minutes of Passion's half-naked tolerance.

"Yeah, I bought her a few drinks. So what? She was all over me."

When the song ends, Raven climbs down from the stage with her leather bra and panties in her hand. She makes a beeline for the old bastard with all the cash. I bet he doesn't give a shit about Raven's conversational skills, either. He wants a closer look at that plump pussy. I tidy up the stack of dollar bills in front of me as the deejay reminds the Saturday night crowd that cruelty to animals will not be tolerated. No choking chickens or spanking monkeys in the bathroom. I feel oddly disappointed though I fully intended to wait until I got home for the old five knuckle festivities.

"Are you listening to me, Tommy?"

"I'm trying not to."

"She gave me her phone number."

"Another one for your disconnected collection, huh?"

"We'll see."

"Keith... All I'm saying is that she's a corvette. You follow?"

"Yeah."

"And you've never driven anything better than a Pinto. And you never will. You don't even have any business at the dealership. You dig?"

"You're a real asshole. You know that?"

How could I forget. Keith reminds me every time we come here. I'm the asshole every time he believes he can sweet talk his desperate way into a stripper's luscious life only to be cruelly rebuffed. With every fake, disconnected number given, I'm the asshole. Every twenty spot dropped. I'm the asshole for not supporting his fantasy.

Then, the deejay introduces Rage, and I no longer have any time to worry about Keith's trip. I compulsively tidy up the stack of bills in front of me. Take another cringing gulp of warm, skunky beer. Light a cigarette, coolly, as if to show I'm not some punk to trifle with. I'm a real man.

Rage makes her entrance with a little Metallica. A softer number from one of their more recent albums. Rage wears a silky, sinister red robe with a hood that obscures most of her face. Only a puff of flaming hair escapes from the cloak. And legs. Nothing but legs. Smooth, creamy white, beautifully sculpted calves.

She begins collecting dollars immediately. She ain't getting shit from me until the cloak comes off. I don't give a fuck how god damn gorgeous those legs are.

"Why are you always putting me down, man," Keith mewls from somewhere out of my line of vision. "You think she'd sit here and talk to me for thirty minutes just because she wanted my money?"

I gotta look at Keith, now. Glassy eyes, quivering lip. A little too much ass and booze, I guess. I reckon I'm gonna have to hear about how much he hates his life for the rest of the night.

"It was more like twenty minutes, Keith. And if you think Passion or any other stripper in this fucking building wants anything more than all your money, you don't need to be here."

"Excuse me, gentlemen. Am I interrupting anything?"

Rage ... towering over me. Cloak sprawled on the floor behind her. Legs spread defiantly. Legs like three miles of pristine highway converging at a bubblegum pink inverted camel toe fringed with a fiery shock of pubic hair trimmed to a Hitler mustache above her lips. My eyes travel up her flat navel. Tits like two generous scoops of French Vanilla ice cream topped with cherries. Ocean eyes. Pouting oxblood lips...

I smile sheepishly. She does not return it. Instead she sits down in front of me, puts her legs on either side of my head and inches her ass forward until my cheeks are massaging her thighs and my nose is only an inch away from her strawberry scented cooter.

"Do I have your attention, now?" Rage asks.

I nod my head slowly. If my tongue were a centimeter longer I could probably lick her lips. Carefully, I slide my wallet out of my back pocket. I really think this one likes me.

Kevin hovered over her with
his elbows locked. Her breath steamed a palpable mixture of lust
and anxiety. He planted hard, rapid pecks on her lips with a
closed mouth hoping that somewhere in the succession he would
find the restraint to make the right decision. He knew in his
mind what was right. He knew he'd already crossed too many lines.

"I want you. I want to
do this," she said reaching her hands around his back and
pulling him in towards her.

Kevin knew if they weren't
naked, if the room had a little more lighting, if her warm flesh
against his own didn't make him twitch and tingle, he could've
stopped. The knowledge of that fact made him feel somewhat better
as he pushed his hips slowly forward sliding inside of her. She
moaned. He did it. There was no going back now.

A few moments later that
feeling started to build in him. He panicked. They had only been
forty-five seconds, and his only hope was to hold out the full
minute. He tried distracting himself with thoughts of his mother,
the Boston Red Sox batting order, walking bare foot over a pile
on hot coals. It was no use. He gritted his teeth and exploded
inside the condom. His hips relaxed and his body fell limp on top
of her.

She ran her fingers through
his hair and kissed his earlobes. "That was the best I've
ever had, Mr. Cohen," she whispered.

The comment hit Kevin like a
brick across the nose. There was no denying it. She was, for a
fact, sixteen years old.

After dropping Gina off two
blocks down from her parent's house, Kevin decided to drive
around rather than going straight back to his apartment. He'd
lived in Deny, New Hampshire for four years. He accepted a
position teaching high school English right after finishing
college and enjoyed his job and somewhat comfortable life. It
wasn't until his ex-girlfriend, Julie, left him and moved to
Boston with the drummer of an Aerosmith cover band called Sweet
Emotion that things started to come slowly apart. He took it
hard, spending long nights drinking Heinekens in the dark. Gina
showed up at the wrong time. He was still rebounding. She was
aggressive, showing up after school for extra help, flaunting her
nubile parts in tight shirts and short dresses. She taunted,
begged Kevin to see her outside of school to "talk."
Finally his resistance, along with his good sense, dissolved.

Kevin reached into his glove
compartment and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He placed one
between his lips and pushed in the car lighter. He bought a pack
of Marlboros before he picked up Gina earlier that night. He'd
quit for two years and seven months. He inhaled.

Kevin drove past the coffee
shop that he and Julie used to go to when they needed to get out
of the apartment and didn't have the money for beer. He
remembered how she used to place ice cubes in her coffee and
drink it down fast ignoring the taste and craving the caffeine.
It was before she started using amphetamines and before she
started going out with her musician friend and fucking him for
coke.

Kevin parked his old pick-up
truck in a side street next to the cafe. He contemplated stopping
for a cup of coffee, but kept driving instead. He weaved through
the streets barely conscious of the road. Gina's naked body
spread out on the couch remained etched in his mind. The way she
took off her bra and that first glimpse of her young breasts
aroused him as he drove. He saw her picking up her clothes,
giggling and carrying the bundle into the bathroom to change
after the sex. It produced a sick, yet illicit churning in his
stomach. Then a feeling, his first real comprehension of the
severity of what he'd done passed over him. Dread and panic. The
school board, the police, jail. He slammed on the breaks just
before rear-ending a white Mercedes. He looked at the clock on
the dashboard. It was already 11:32, and he had to teach in the
morning.

A familiar silence filled
the classroom. Kevin removed his glasses, wiped them on his tie
and repeated the question.

"So why do you think
George killed Lenny at the end?"

He looked around at the
students. Four or five of them had their heads down cradled
between their arms. A few of them flipped through the pages of
their battered copies of Of Mice and Men pretending to search for
an answer. He saw a note being passed in the back of the room
from a notorious pot dealer with long red hair, a "Kill 'Em
All" Metallica T-shirt and a face full of acne to one of the
more popular cheerleaders. He walked towards the back of the room
and intercepted it before she could read it. He opened the folded
paper and perused the contents. "Meet me under the bleachers
after school," it said. He crumpled it up, reprimanded them
with a stem look and tossed it in the garbage can.

"Anyone? Why would
George shoot his best friend? Does this indicate that they
weren't friends at all? Why did George shoot Lenny?" A hand
went up. He looked over at Gina sitting upright and smiling.

"Yes... Gina,"
Kevin said. Her name felt thick rolling off his tongue. His heart
began to race, pattering in his chest. He took off his glasses
and wiped them with his tie again.

"Because he loved
Lenny," Gina said, fidgeting in her seat. Kevin became dizzy
and sat down on the top of an empty desk on the other side of the
room. His mouth dried up and a thin layer film covered his
tongue. "Good." Kevin said weakly, "Explain what
you mean by that?"

Gina stuck out her chest as
she composed what she was going to say. The picture of her body
naked on his couch crept into his thoughts. He placed his hand
over his face and wiped the sweat off his forehead before looking
back at her.

"Well... George, like,
loved Lenny. He knew Curley wanted to kill him because Lenny,
like, killed his wife, but didn't really mean it. So George
started telling Lenny about the rabbits and stuff, so Lenny would
be happy before he died. He did it because he really was his
friend. When you really love somebody, you'll do anything for
them, you know? You care about them more than you care about
yourself. Even if it means doing things that you know are, like,
wrong?" Gina stared at him with a cool gaze that burned
through his skin.

There was another long,
onerous silence and a couple of sleepers lifted their heads to
see what was going on. Kevin's heart continued pounding. He
looked around the classroom and all eyes seemed to be focused on
him. He coughed nervously and tried to put his book down on the
desk he was sitting on, but it fell to the floor. He leaned over
to pick it up as the bell rang.

Kevin looked up at the class
like a helpless animal frightened by the bell. The students began
gathering their books and made their way to the door. Frazzled,
he fought to get one last word in above the chatter and noise of
the moving bodies. "Ummm... very good, Gina. If you haven't
finished reading Of Mice and Men, make sure you have it finished
by tomorrow," Kevin said in a loud voice hoping to get the
attention of the students who were still straggling out of class.
He put his head between his hands and took a couple of deep
breaths. He felt a finger tap his shoulder.

Gina stood in front of him
with her books covering her chest. She smiled shyly at Kevin and
reached into her books pulling out a folded piece of loose leaf.

"See you tomorrow, Mr.
Cohen," she said handing him the note. Kevin forced a weak
smile back at her. She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek as
Kevin jumped from the desk and walked quickly towards the
chalkboard. "Yes, see you tomorrow, Gina," he said over
his shoulder. As Gina left the classroom, Kevin sat down on the
chair behind his desk and tried compose himself for the class
coming in. He unfolded the note and laid it down flat on his
desk.

Can I see you tomorrow
night? Let me know. Love, Gina. The handwriting was in neat
cursive with small hearts dotting the I's.

Kevin tore the note into
small pieces and stuffed it in his pocket. A few students from
his next class began to sit down.

"I fucked up, man. I
mean, I really fucked up." Kevin reached for his pack of
cigarettes and lit one blowing a cloud of smoke in Dan's face.

"What'd ya mean? Did
you kill Julie's new boyfriend? Cut him up in little pieces, bag
him and stuff him in your freezer?" Dan smiled and took a
sip from his beer.

"No! I didn't kill
anyone. But I really fucked up, man. This one may be the end of
me," Kevin said.

"What'd ya fuck a
student or something?"

Kevin looked solemnly up at
Dan, then turned his head blowing another mouth full of smoke in
the opposite direction.

Dan's eyes grew wide.
"You didn't!? You're kidding me, right? You would never...
no way, man! You got to be bullshitting me." Dan reached
over and grabbed Kevin by the shirt collar pulling Kevin close
enough to feel his breath on his face. It smelled a stale beer
and mint chewing tobacco.

"I'm serious, man. I
fucked up! I mean, really, really fucked up. I don't know what to
do." Kevin flinched, bracing himself for a punch he knew
wouldn't come. In the thirteen years Dan and Kevin had been
friends, Dan had never hit him. He was considerably larger and
brawnier than Kevin. Dan had excelled in football and womanizing
in high school. However, his grades were too low to get into any
four-year college, and his football talents couldn't quite secure
him a scholarship. He considered the military but went to work
landscaping for the town right after graduation instead. He met
his wife at a New England Patriot's game the next year and
married her six months later. After getting married, Dan settled
down and become somewhat of a moral activist-- swearing off
womanizing and misogyny and verbally battering those who behaved
like what Dan called "his old self " His wife was a
Bom-again Christian, and although Dan never bought into it
himself, her Bible preaching had still somewhat changed Dan.

"How old is she? She's
at least eighteen, right?" Dan released Kevin's shirt and
pushed him back into his chair.

"No, man. She's only
sixteen," Kevin said as his voice began to crack and his
legs went numb.

"You shithead,"
Dan said in an angry voice only a decimal above a whisper.
"You realize you can go to jail for that, right? What were
you thinking? What the fuck were you thinking when you stuck it
in a sixteen year old?"

Kevin didn't have an answer.
He reached into his pocket and felt the torn note Gina had given
him class. He let the ink bleed on his sweaty palms, clutching it
tight, balling his fingers into a tight fist and punching his own
thigh. He felt tears starting to well in the corners of his eyes.

"What are you going to
do? Do you think she's going to tell anybody?" Dan took
another slug off his beer- his eyes never leaving Kevin's face.
He slammed the bottle down on the table and waited for a
response.

"You stupid, Buttafucco
motherfucker. What are going to do? Are you going to see
her?"

"I think I better. I
mean, I think I should probably talk to her. She's a nice girl,
Dan. Not the kind of girl that would screw her teacher to brag to
her friends or to get a grade. She's a decent student. But I
think she's fallen for me." Saying those words sent another
surge of fear through Kevin. She had fallen for him.

"You're right... you
really fucked up," Dan said shaking his head like he'd just
been slapped across the cheek.

Kevin lit another cigarette
off the end of his last one and ordered another double-scotch on
the rocks. He inhaled deeply. He could hardly believe he quit
smoking for two years.

She waited on the same
comer, two blocks from her house. Kevin watched her shadow in the
streetlights drop on the pavement like black silk. He watched her
as he hid behind a car parked on the side of the road. His own
car parked another block down. He told her as she was leaving
class on Friday to wait for him at 7:30. Gina smiled and blew a
kiss over her shoulder as she was walking out the room.

Gina removed some lipstick
and a mirror from her pocket book and applied an extra layer to
make her thin lips took fuller. Her long brown hair was down and
softly caressing the mid-section of her back. She wore a tight
black dress and pair of black pumps. From a passing glance, Kevin
thought, you'd guess she's at least eighteen, if not older.

Gina kept looking around,
waiting. Her brown eyes scared that she might get caught standing
alone on the street on a Friday night. Or even worse, he might
not show up. Kevin felt his stomach drop and a heavy sullenness
overcame him. She was only a girl-- young, impressionable,
desperately trying to shed the skin of her own adolescence for a
more desired womanhood. He wanted to go over to her and take her
in his arms and assure her that everything would be all right. He
wanted to hear from her that she'd get over it and remember him
as her teacher, not some stiff cock who abandoned her after a
quickie. He remembered Dan in high school, and the girls who
approached him in the hallway throwing fists at him with their
eyes splotched red from long nights of crying. Kevin never wanted
to this to happen. He was lonely, heart-broken, vulnerable and
careless. He never meant to do it to Gina. She was only a girl. A
girl waiting on a cold street corner for headlights to appear and
a warm car to carry her away-- way from what was in front her-- a
silk shadow.

Kevin turned the corner and
began walking back to his car. He was going back to his
apartment, and Gina would keep waiting. He wondered just how long
she'd wait before reaching for someone to talk to. Someone to
tell.

Kevin sat behind his desk
organizing papers, pens, files and glancing at the door as the
students began filtering into the classroom. He kept waiting for
her. Friday night after returning to his apartment he sat down
and began composing a long letter. An incriminating document, but
it was his last hope at saving his conscience and career. He
pleaded for Gina's understanding and profusely apologized. He
kept the letter neatly folded in his pocket. He was going to give
to her with a verbal apology after class. All weekend he prayed.
Kevin prayed to some higher power that Gina wouldn't open her
mouth, and the letter would clarify things between them. Gina
walked into the class. Kevin looked up. They caught eyes for a
second, then they both looked down at the floor. Gina shuffled
across the room to her desk, sat down and folded her hands. Her
face hinted nothing; not giving a Kevin a small clue to work off.

"Okay, will everyone
take out their homework from Friday," Kevin said standing up
from his desk and Approaching the center of class. "Please
pass it to the front."

Gina reached back and
grabbed a small stack of papers, She handed them to Kevin with
her head turned and her arm outstretched. She didn't look at him.

"Thank you, Gina,"
Kevin said softly.

She ignored him.

The period passed slowly.
Each word out of Kevin's mouth seemed to stick to his lips for a
short eternity before finally finding sound. He kept glancing
over at Gina while other students took turns reading aloud from a
handout of "The Chrysanthemums" Kevin had passed out.
He felt himself shiver when Elisa Allen found her pot broken on
the side of the road after being used and conned by the wily
traveler. He looked over at Gina who kept her head down and
listlessly flipped through pages in her notebook.

The bell finally rang.

"Gina, can I see you
for a second?" He put his hand in his pocket and clenched
his fist around the letter.

Gina stood in front of him
restlessly looking around the room. Breathing heavy. She had her
books wrapped in her arms in front of her chest.

Kevin sat down on a desk,
removed his glasses and wished for the right words to arrive.
"Gina, we need to talk."

"About what?" Gina
said playing dumb.

Kevin took a deep breath as
he kept the letter in his hand. "About what happened between
us," he said.

"Gina? You
coming?" A voice came from the doorway. A young man stood
there with his books tucked under his arms like a football.
"Oh, hey, Mr. Cohen. How's it going?"

Kevin paused for a moment,
stunned. "Not too bad, David. What are you doing here?"
Kevin had David in class when he was freshman. David was one of
the more popular students-- a football player and conventionally
handsome, although not the exactly the scholarly type.

"I'm waiting for
Gina," David said smiling and hopping from one foot to the
another like he was warming up for a fight.

Kevin looked at Gina who
kept her head down. "I think that's great," Kevin said
to David with feigned enthusiasm. "That's great, Gina."
as voice dropped to a whisper.

"I gotta go, Mr.
Cohen," she said, "I have to get to biology." She
pushed her way past Kevin and met David in the doorway with a
long, open-mouthed kiss. Kevin watched for a second and turned
back to his desk. His hand still clutching the letter. He let it
fall back into his pocket and wiped his sweaty hand on the leg of
his pants.

"See ya later, Mr.
Cohen," David said as he and Gina disappeared in the noisy
hallway.

Kevin reached back in his
pocket, took out the letter and tore it into pieces. He looked at
the scraps laying in his palm, then put them back in his pocket.
He felt the torn paper slipping through his fingers. He tried to
smile at the first student who walked into class, but it felt
wrong. Forced. He needed a cigarette. He could hardly believe he
had quit for two and a half years.

(copyright
2000 by Nathan Graziano. Originally published in Crystal Drum
74)

Of all the places
that we were told in no uncertain terms not to play near, our
favorite was the abandoned brick works. It was located just
outside of town-- you had to cross the railroad trestle foot
bridge 60 feet above the Peckman River, you had to follow a path
that skirted the edge of the quarry, and you had to pick your way
through a junk yard full of mildewed sofas and Chevy suspension
systems to reach it, and then you had to hop the fence to get
inside the grounds. Unlike most of the places our parents warned
us to avoid, the brick works was legitimately dangerous; there
were large, unstable stacks of bricks all over the place, and
large cooling towers, and piles of unidentifiable waste material,
and strange, perfectly round pits of varying depth; the place was
an obvious death trap, and there were signs all over the place
spelling this out in detail, warning against trespassing and
listing all sorts of fines and punishments for unauthorized
people caught on the grounds. We used to go there for picnics.

Sometimes it would
be just Calvano, Picarillo, and me, and other times Calvano's
brother Duff would come, and from time to time we would encounter
picnickers from the nearby towns of Cedar Grove and Montclair and
Caldwell. Sometimes there was a watchman on duty, but he always
parked his car in the shade of the biggest cooling tower, where
it was visible from the junk yard, and when we caught sight of
it, we would find a
likely looking decayed sofa, jump up and down on it a little bit
to scare off the bugs and eat our lunch right there. But lunch
always tasted better inside the brick works.

One afternoon, after
we had finished our lunch and dumped our refuse in the deep pit
which was, by common consent, used as the garbage hole, we were
skulking around the brick works and took a path we'd never taken
before; it lead down hill, past some small buildings that looked
vaguely like industrial versions of beach cabanas, and terminated
in a tailings pond. Actually it was more like a puddle than a
pond, and the water was remarkably foul-looking and
foul-smelling. We circled it. "I gotta feeling something's
IN there," said Calvano. Undoubtedly, something was--
mostly, whatever refuse you could rinse out of the big kilns
after a busy day of brick manufacturing-- but we knew what
Calvano meant-- he meant something ALIVE. Something MUTATED.
Something probably not unlike the hideous, flesh-eating Mud Beast
in the most recent issue of Tales From the Tomb. "I
think I see a b-bubble," said Picarillo. We began to back up
the path. I thought I saw a b-bubble, too. But we were tough,
gutsy kids, and we waited till we were a good 20 or 30 feet from
the pond before we broke into a run.

We were all at that
awkward age when you know there's no such thing as a mutant Mud
Beast, and yet you wish there could be; when you know better than
to mention to anyone that you saw the air bubbles of a creature
rising to the surface of the pond because it sensed the presence
of fresh meat, yet you can't stop yourself because it's far and
away the most interesting thing that's ever happened to you, even
though, of course, it didn't.

"You're all
morons," said Calvano's brother Duff. "Everybody knows
about the pond. It's a tailings pond, it's just the place they
dumped their garbage. It's only like three feet deep. We go
without rain for a couple weeks, and it dries up till it rains
again. You know what's under there, when it's dried up?
Scuzz."

"What kind of
scuzz?" said Calvano suspiciously.

"Gloppy scuzz
at first, then crusty scuzz. Smelly scuzz at first, then
not-so-smelly scuzz when it's been dried out for a while."

Picarillo was
sitting on the edge of the bed, playing with Calvano's rubber
deluxe werewolf mask. "I saw this boat in the mud, down by
the Peckman, when we were crossing the trestle the other day. One
of those little boats? With the flat ends?"

"A punt,"
said Duff. "So?"

"I'm just
thinking. Suppose we got that boat and stuck it in the pond,
right? We charged kids like 50 cents or something to float out
into the middle of the pond. Told them there was a monster in the
pond. Had 'em sitting there for five minutes with

nothing
happening."

"Five minutes
is a long time to go with nothing happening," said Duff.

"Yeah. And
they'd all be complaining, wanting their money back and
stuff."

"Yeah.
So?"

"And
then--" Picarillo stuck his fist in side the werewolf head
and pumped it into the air. "--this MONSTER HEAD comes
boiling up through the water!"

"Man!"
said Duff, "That is a great idea! I gotta tell you,
Picarillo, I didn't think you had it in you! I thought you were
maybe slightly SLOW and all, you know? You got those like squinty
eyes and you're kind of big and clumsy like the kids in special
class, and you wear those shirts with the tail hanging out, but
that is a great idea!"

"Thank
you," said Picarillo miserably.

The hardest part of
the job was transporting the punt to the brick works. The punt
had been pretty beat up to start with, and dragging it up the
hill, past the quarry and over the fence did not improve its
condition noticeably. Duff brought a roll of duct tape to repair
the bigger holes in the hull. "This won't hold too
long," he said. "Next time we come, we'll have to bring
some of that card board that comes when you buy a new t-shirt.
We'll tape a couple sheets of that over the holes, for like added
strength."

Lackadaisical as he
was about the punt, Duff had put a great deal of thought and work
into getting the wold head to hit the surface on cue. Basically,
he turned it into a low-powered rocket, with packets of baking
soda and vinegar in the carefully sealed head, and an egg timer
which would go off after a few minutes and rupture the vinegar
bag. It took nearly 7 tries to get this to work at all, and when
it did, the head bobbed to the surface upside down.
"Okay," he said. "I need to weigh down the bottom
of the head a little, and I need a stronger fuel. And thicker
gloves, because this water is making my hands all scaly and
gross."

For a couple of
weeks, Duff set his not inconsiderable brain power to working out
this problem. And he succeeded beyond anyone's wildest hopes.

"It's going to
go in two stages," he said. "Stage one, a small
charge-- no more of this baking soda and vinegar crap, either,
we're talking HIGH GRADE COMBUSTIBLES-- will send all these
bubbles churning to the surface. That charge, in turn, will
detonate the MAIN charge, and the head will break the surface.
They'll be about 5 seconds between the explosions, so everyone
will be staring at the exact spot where the head will pop out.
And we set off the first charge--" he held up a walkie-
talkie-- "by radio! Just like bomb guys in the movies!"

"Or," said
Calvano, "like when you wanted to get into the equipment
shed by the football field last summer, an'--"

Duff whacked his
younger brother in the head several times with the walkie talkie,
the universally acknowledged signal for 'shut up.'

We crept out to the
brick works very early one Saturday morning to try it out. All of
us crammed into the punt, and floated to the middle of the pond.
Duff carefully lowered the doctored wolf head into the water.
"We don't want to be too close to this," he said,
"in case something goes wrong."

What could possibly
go wrong?

"HEY! YOU BOYS!
WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" It was the watchman, who,
we now realized, did not show up for work until well after 9 AM.
"I WANT ALL YOUR NAMES AND ADDRESSES! YOU BOYS ARE
TRESPASSING! I'M GONNA PHONE ALL YOUR PARENTS!"

"My dad's name
is Lawrence Talbot, The Wolf Man," yelled Duff. "He's
taking a dip." He pressed the button on the walkie talkie.
"HEY, DAD! SOME RUM BUCKET WANTS TO TALK TO YOU!"

The wolf head broke
the surface; three quarters of the head was visible.

"Waauughh!"
said the guard.

"Oops,"
said Duff, "A tad too much fuel. That was just the
first--"

The second charge
went off. The head shot out of the water and sailed a good 40
feet through the air. It was burning. The flaming head slammed
into the ground and rolled back down the hill towards the pond.
Before it reached us, it blew apart like a hairy rubber bomb. A
chunk of burning wolf-rubber landed in the punt with us.
"Oh, Christ," wailed Picarillo, "The boat's on
fire! Swim for it!"

"Don't touch
the water!" screamed Duff, "It'll give you crocodile
skin!" He tried to stomp out the burning rubber; his foot
went right through the bottom of the punt. Picarillo and I
unshipped the broken pool cues we had brought along in case of an
emergency and began to push the punt towards land. "My shoe
is on fire," said Duff, though his foot had now been
submerged for almost a full minute.

"You're gonna
have a crocodile foot," said Calvano, with perhaps a trace
of envy in his voice.

The guard just
stared at us as we beached the punt and trudged, now headless,
homeward, to watch Duff's foot mutate.

(copyright 1994, 1999, 2000
by Jeff Grimshaw. originally appeared--in slightly
different form-- in The Delaware Valley News. This
version from Crystal Drum 59. Audio version on the
"History of Torture" cassette)

One morning on the
way to school you would notice the dead airman. What is that? And
your friends would say: What? Oh, haven't you ever seen that
before? It's the dead airman.

His parachute was
caught in the struts of the railroad bridge, where it crosses
Main Street. He was all tangled in his lines; sometimes he was
wrapped up tight, flush to the bridge, like a deer tied to the
hood of the car, and at other times a leg or an arm might have
worked itself loose and would dangle free, swaying in the wind or
bouncing crazily as a train roared across the tracks.

He wore a jump suit
and jump boots and a helmet with a visor and you couldn't see his
face. There was a crack in the visor. The helmet was originally
white, but when they painted the railroad bridge every three
years, they painted the dead airman, too. Sometimes they painted
him the same color as the bridge, and you had to really look for
him; and sometimes they would paint him the color of the trim, or
another contrasting color, and you couldn't help but notice him.

We were in the third
grade and we all wanted to be the dead airman when we grew up.
Well, not the girls. The girls said they were sure he was very
handsome under that visor. They would argue about whether he
probably looked more like Tab Hunter or Tony Curtis. This was a
long time ago.

Sometimes the dead
airman would manage to get untangled and then he would wander
around town for a while. He would go to the diner on Fishmeal
Road and have an omelet and toast and a cup of coffee, no matter
what time of day it was. He would buy a transistor radio and sit
on a bench in the park and listen to a ball game. Once he went to
the matinee at the Oxford Theater, where they were showing Bob
Hope in "Call Me Bwana." The people who were there said
the dead airman thought it was a riot. He laughed all the way
through it. One girl in my class was at the matinee and the other
girls were jealous. They asked her what his laugh was like. She
said it was just dreamy. Though Mr. Rubin, the manager of the
Oxford, told me many years later that the dead airman laughed
"...like a goddamn dog barking, if you know what I mean. Ha!
Ha! Ha! Arf! Arf! Arf!"

The dead airman
would stroll around, covered head to toe in white paint or dark
blue paint (only the front; his back, which was against the
bridge when it was painted, was always orange, the original color
of his jump suit) and then the next day he would be back up on
the bridge. We took him for granted and were always a little
surprised when kids from out of town-- visiting cousins, for
instance-- said there was no dead airman in their town. Some
towns did not even have a railroad bridge.

I was 11 when they
cut the dead airman out of his harness and buried him. Some of
the organizations in town-- the Masons, the Little League, the
VFW-- had held a series of bake sales, carnivals, and bingo
nights, and raised enough money to purchase a cemetery plot and a
modest head stone. They asked the dead airman his name. In fact,
the mayor himself (at that time it was Bill Hannigan) did the
questioning: "We need a name, bub," he said.
"Cavelli's gonna carve it on the stone."

He couldn't
remember. He just shook his head. We all felt bad for him. The
Eastern Star had kicked in enough money to have him embalmed;
there was a viewing at Carpenter's Funeral Home. The dead airman
wore a pinstripe suit and had his hair combed very neatly. His
jump suit was folded up on a chair next to the coffin, with the
helmet right on top. He sat on another chair. He was not bad
looking at all. Of course, there wasn't the slightest resemblance
to either Tony Curtis or Tab Hunter. He chatted with some of the
mourners, and Bobby Flannagan ran to the diner to get him a
chocolate soda. The dead airman gave him a dollar and told him to
keep the change. He said the embalming fluid stung a little at
first, but he got used to it. Mr. Carpenter said confidentially
that the dead airman had been getting a little gamy and probably
should have been embalmed a long time ago. Then it was time for
the burial. He rode up front with Mr. Carpenter and didn't get
into the coffin until everyone got to the cemetery. While he
waited for things to get underway, he smoked a cigarette. This
bitterly disappointed Betty Jerasco (8th grade), who maintained
that only 'hoods and whores' smoked. He stepped on the smoldering
butt and climbed into the coffin and the top was screwed down,
and then he was lowered into the grave. A couple of weeks later
they painted his spot on the bridge. Sky blue, like the rest of
the bridge that year.

Within a couple of
weeks, we already had a new dead airman, fastened to the bridge
with shock cords. The new dead airman was wearing the old dead
airman's flight suit, which had been cleaned up-- insofar as it's
possible to clean up a flight suit that's been painted with half
a dozen coats of exterior latex. The new dead airman had
previously been a mannequin, which the Jay Cees had snapped up
for a song when Fuller's Department Store went belly up that
spring. There was no doubt that the town had needed a new dead
airman, but this was a female mannequin. Most of the time it
didn't make any difference, except when the wind blew a certain
way and you could make out the hard little plaster breasts under
the flight suit. Some people were amused by this, some outraged.
A lot of guys started hanging out on the corner of Main and
Orchard, waiting for the wind to blow. The girls told us how
pathetic we were. Then one night that summer after a beer blast,
a bunch of boys from the Gamma Epsilon house gathered up rocks
from the vacant lot next to Fiegleson's and threw them at the new
dead airman. The mannequin body was broken to pieces inside the
flight suit. A few days later one of the plaster arms slipped out
of the sleeve of the flight suit when a train went over the
bridge. Dented the hood of Ricky Porter's Buick. If he had been
there a fraction of second earlier it would have gone right
through is windshield. So they removed the chunks of the
mannequin and just left the flight suit strapped to the bridge.
That was how it was for perhaps about 18 months.

Then Michael
Garrison was the dead airman, and after that Mr. O'Brien from the
lumberyard. For a couple of months during my senior year, I was
the dead airman. The two hardest things about it were 1) being an
airman, which required a lot more math than you would think, and
2) being dead. When you signed up to be the dead airman, you had
the option of being embalmed or not being embalmed. I went for
it, because I was going to be the dead airman during prom season.
I took Cindy Genero. She was a knockout back then. The sad fact
is, she would never have agreed to go with me if I hadn't been
the dead airman. Another sad fact: I didn't care. I got to third
base.

After I was the dead
airman, John Fong was the dead airman. He was the first dead
airman of Asian descent. In those days, the dead airman was no
longer strapped to the bridge all the time. I didn't spend more
than ten hours up there the whole time I served, and never more
than 40 consecutive minutes. I attended all my classes, but was
ineligible, I learned too late, for the track team. Still, on the
whole I would have to say it was worth it.

Often, former dead
airmen can be found in the back room at Hannigan's, watching
Jeopardy or the Phillies on Hannigan's crummy little 13-inch TV.
We like to kid around about how easy it is to tell who was
embalmed and who wasn't (and it is). There have been close to 90
dead airmen now, including three females (not, of course,
including the mannequin). Even the first dead airman shows up
every now and then, his fingernails splintered and his pinstripe
suit caked with dirt. We tell him he was the best. And it's
absolutely true. Believe me, his money is no good at Hannigan's.

(copyright
1999, 2000 by Jeff Grimshaw. originally appeared in GEORGE &
MERTIE'S PLACE. Reprinted in Crystal Drum 69)